


Through the Wreaths of Mist

by Technomad



Category: Tomorrow Series - John Marsden
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Technomad/pseuds/Technomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war may be over, but the losses linger on...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Wreaths of Mist

Through the Wreaths of Mist

A Tomorrow Series fanfic

by Technomad

 

I come here when no-one else is here, for preference.

Of course, I’m here on Anzac Day; since the war, that holiday’s become a rallying point for those who don’t think it’s over…who plan, one day, to liberate all of our homeland and drive the invaders into the sea. I sit there on the platform, listen to all the speeches, watch the parade, and applaud when I’m told to. 

But that’s too public for me. I prefer to be here, with my friends, when no-one else is around. Like today. It’s a grey day with wind and a good chance of rain, and I should be undisturbed.

I walk into the Wirrawee Cemetery, and go past the Anzac Monument. It’s inscribed with everybody from our area who died in war. The names go back a long way…some as far as the Second Boer War. Even as far back as before the twentieth century, Wirrawee was giving its young men to war, and some didn’t come back. 

There’s a long, long list of names from the First World War. It’s on the monument under the name “The Great War.” Back then, they really thought that it was “The War to End War.” Little did they know. Gallipoli, Kut, the Western Front in France…they thought it would be a doddle, and then they really thought that it would be the last war of all. 

Luckily, they left room on the memorial. There’s another long list of names from World War II; Wirrawee men served anywhere the Australian Army and Navy were. On the land, in the sea, in the air…they were everywhere, and many didn’t make it home. Australian fighting men had a reputation to uphold, and they did it, splendidly. 

Even after that, there were names to add…the Malaysian Emergency and Vietnam all did their bit to make sure that the roll of honour was always receiving fresh names, and then the War on Terrorism came along. I knew a bloke who went off to Afghanistan; he came back, but he wasn’t the same after. 

There was a time when I’d feel like rolling my eyes and sighing when people talked about heroism and sacrifice. Now, I understand completely. I understand, but I’d give anything for the innocence I once had. 

Last on the monument, you come to the names of the local people who were lost in the Invasion. Some died at the Showgrounds, from illness or ill-treatment; others got in the way of bullets, one way or another. I knew every one of them, and do my best to make sure that they’re never, ever forgotten. 

Near the monument, I find what I’m looking for. Unlike all of Australia’s previous wars, all the dead here died on home soil, and we brought them here so they could be properly honoured. I look at the white stone, carven with names and dates of birth and death, and it’s all I can do to keep some semblance of self-control. On Anzac Day, I religiously avoid looking in this direction.

I remember when the bodies were re-interred here. They’d all been recovered, rather to my surprise. All of us were present, as honourary pallbearers. I managed to keep a stiff upper lip through the speeches, but when the coffins were carried by, on the shoulders of soldiers, each covered with the Australian flag, I broke down and bawled. I wasn’t the only one, though. Fi was crying just as hard as I was, and even though the boys tried, it was more than they could stand. When they played the “Last Post,” Homer suddenly started sobbing, and that set Kevin and Lee off. Even though those big tossers tried to pretend that nothing had happened after it was over, it did happen. And I’d cheerfully rip the throat out of anybody who said one word out of place about it. 

Corrie’s grave comes first; it always, always comes first. She was my best mate for many years, and not a day goes by without me missing her; I see something she’d have been interested in, or turn to tell her something, only to remember yet again that she’s dead. Tears fill my eyes, when I remember that I didn’t even tell her good-bye. 

I picked out her epitaph myself; Mrs. Mackenzie couldn’t bring herself to do it. I took a quote from Yeats: 

**Corrie Mackenzie**   
_"The innocent and the beautiful  
Have no enemy but time."_

Corrie was innocent, and beautiful, and should have had much longer. When I’m having a worse day than usual, I start wishing that it could have been me instead. But then she’d be mourning me…I should talk to one of those counselors one day about this. In a lot of ways, I’ve never got past Corrie’s death. 

I leave some of the flowers I’ve brought on her grave. She always said that if you wanted to give her flowers, to do it when she was alive, so she could smell them. I’d give a whole world of flowers to have her back with me. 

Beside her lies Darina. After the war, we were able to trace her family; she’d come from a fairly dysfunctional lot, with her dad in and out of the lockup, her mum waltzing from bloke to bloke when her husband wasn’t around, and her own life a chaos of abuse. No wonder she was able to survive as a feral child in the chaos of the invasion, and no wonder she wasn’t willing to trust us! Even Gavin had it better!

Her rellies were mostly in worse shape than average after the Invasion; they tended to fall foul of the invaders, and those that had survived had been pretty badly knocked-about. I was able to get their consent to act as next-of-kin, and when they brought Darina’s body up from where we’d buried it down in Hell, I’d figured out what to put on her stone.

It’s got a lamb carved on it…a lamb lost in the bush, away from its mum and its flock. Under that, it’s got the inscription I chose:

 **Darina Johnson**  
A lost lamb  
 _“Suffer the little children to come to Me,  
and forbid them not,  
for of such is the kingdom of Heaven.”_

Robyn…I could never, ever forget Robyn. Her sacrifice saved all our lives. After the war, we were called heroes, but I kept insisting and insisting that compared to Robyn, I wasn’t a hero at all. Someone must have listened, since she got a posthumous Cross of Valour; that’s the highest honour a civilian can receive for heroism in war. I’d think that the Victoria Cross would not be too much honour for her. 

**Robyn Mathers** _  
“Greater love hath no man than this,  
than that he lay down his life for his friends.”_

There was no doubt about that particular epitaph. I lay rosemary on her grave, for remembrance, and note, as I always do, that I’m not the only one. Her story really caught people’s imagination; there are always flowers on her grave. Where ever she is, I hope she’s happy. I hope one day to see her again and ask her. That is, if I’m good enough to go where she is. If she’s got anything to say about it, they’ll let me in even if I don’t measure up in other ways. She’d want all of us to be together. If one of us were to be damned, she’d go right down and haul him or her out. 

Finally, I come to the one grave I have the hardest time facing. Even seeing Corrie’s grave isn’t this hard. At least with Corrie, I don’t feel to blame. That’s at the Invaders’ door; they neglected her and let her die when they could have saved her, at least according to the docs at the Wirrawee hospital. 

My heart feels like it’s going to burst with grief and guilt, as it always does when I face this stone. Unlike the others, this one has an epitaph written by the person it’s meant to commemorate. 

**Chris Lang**  
 _“They will carry me to the field  
Through the wreaths of mist  
Moist on my face  
And the lamb will pause  
For a thoughtful stare.  
The soldiers, they will come.  
They will lay me in the dark cold earth  
And push the clods in upon my face._”

I’d beg forgiveness, but I don’t know who to ask or how. His own parents never came back from abroad…I’m not sure but that they just couldn’t deal with the changes, and the loss of their son. And Chris…Chris is not here. Where ever he is, I hope he can forgive me. 

If he does…when he does…it’ll be a long time before I can forgive myself.

We just didn’t love him enough. 

THE END


End file.
